


Show You How

by Lemonjest101



Category: Borderlands (Video Games), Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Buckle in kiddos, Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know what I'm doing, M/M, Tales from the Borderlands, Violence, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-17 00:55:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10583058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lemonjest101/pseuds/Lemonjest101
Summary: Rhys wills his cheeks to return to their normal color.Is this what it was like for the vault hunters who worked with Jack when he was alive the first time? Blindly running after him into deadly situations with nothing but a crappy weapon and an undercurrent of sexual tension?No wonder Athena had such a problem with him.Oh God. Athena. Assuming Rhys even manages to get home, to Atlas, there isn't exactly a protocol for Jack not being dead... again.





	1. Chapter 1

Hindsight is a dirty bitch.  
Rhys, as he lies face-down in cave muck, wonders what moment happened that determined this outcome inevitable. Could he have sipped his coffee differently? Said the correct things to the correct people? Not checked those files? Maybe if he wore different jeans with different pockets, with different important items in those pockets...  
Rhys hears a boot make contact with his ribs, but at this point he barely feels it. _That's painful_ , his brain supplies doggedly.

  
The annoying thing is that he knows which actions led him to this cave and particular bandit camp.  
If he could change the moment he was stupid enough to believe his EchoComm couldn't POSSIBLY be hacked, he would.  
If he could retrace his steps and decide not to go on a recovery mission alone, he would.  
If he could go back in time and crush that stupid cybernetic eye, he would.  
  
But he can't.  
He’d tear out his hair in frustration if he thought his body could withstand more injury.

  
The day had started like any other- in a sea of paperwork, asleep on his polished desk in a black swivel chair, robot arm wedged under his face.

* * *

 

**Earlier**

Well, not quite _his_ desk. He shares the desk with Athena and the metal triangle name tag on it splits _both_ of their names. There wasn't really a budget for this kind of stuff at Atlas...  
  
The 29-year-old lies sprawled face-first on his paper strewn desk; his once nice, practical haircut an overgrown mess. On the desk’s corner sits a cold, unfinished mug of black coffee next to a small wilted plant.

When Rhys claimed Atlas corporation a few months back, he had no idea his prided luster for filing papers would diminish; otherwise he would have said fuck no.

It was strange, but his job became less glamorous the moment things weighed it being done correctly- things like the company's future and the employees welfare. He doesn't know how Handsome Jack did it. 

But Rhys has been doing well in the position, according to everyone else. That would be large in part from the new deal with vault hunters.   
As of this last week vault hunters became contractually obligated to protect Atlas in any time of need, and in return Atlas is to serve as a sanctuary towards them.

Vault hunters are much stronger than the papers they sign, and can hypothetically punch, slice, and shoot their way out of a legality they find unfit...  
But that hasn't happened yet.

Instead, on any given day Rhys can find any number of vault hunters, old and new, taking advantage of Atlas’s facilities.

  
A vibration to his knee jostles Rhys from his sleep. His first conscious thought is _Crap_. Consciousness, ugh. He struggles to lift his heavy head, mussing up some papers in the process. His mug of coffee tips precariously.

  
He knows what the vibration is, and it's not sexy. Just dangerous and stupid. He rummages in his pocket for a moment and retrieves the small cybernetic object- the same cybernetic object that Rhys, when faced with a binary decision, pocketed instead of crushed. Yeah, that one.  
The eye does this sometimes- pulses gently against his outer thigh, whispers hello.  
He rolls it between his index finger and thumb  
  
_Plug me in_ , it seems to purr. _Go on, cupcake_.

So stupid.  
So, so stupid.  
He could crush the eye. He could apply the right amount of pressure to the tiny electric blue piece of junk and it would shatter into one hundred little glassy cybernetic pieces.  
He won’t.  
Because...because.

“Why do you have an eye in your pocket?”  
Rhys jumps. He looks up and finds a solemn looking Athena standing in the doorway.  
“Uhh-”  
“That is so weird.”  
“Shut up.”  
Rhys pockets the eye.  
Athena looks worse for wear: bags under her sharp blue eyes and normally tidy indigo hair a dirty mess. She pads into the room, removing her vambraces and Rhys can see a rip in the tough red leather.  
“I thought you were on a supply run,” he says.  
“I was. There was trouble.”  
Of course there was.  
Athena sinks into the armchair across from the glossy table. She looks exhausted. 

“Did trouble have a name?”  
“Broballski’,” she muses.  
Rhys snorts. Broballski.   
“Have we seen this guy before?”  
“I haven't heard of him. He must have just come into town.”  
Rhys’s flesh hand pushes through his hair. Just great. Another psycho warlord filing into the planet of psycho warlords.   
Since the fall of Helios, Pandora seemed the latest breeding ground for all things sharp and deadly, which serves as partial inspiration for the recent deal with vault hunters. Atlas has dealt with 8 different bandit threats in the last _month_.

In times like these, Rhys misses the comfortably distant view of Pandora Helios had offered. Despite all of it’s faults, the space station didn't have any bandits.  
Or psychos. Or rakks, killer plants, badasses, or jelly fish.  
Just accountants.  
  
Rhys stands, needing to get off his ass and actually do something.   
“I'll check the database for the name Broballski. Healing hypos...”  
He gestures vaguely to the mini fridge in the corner as he tucks the Maliwan pistol into his pants.  
“You don't have to chill them,” Athena grumbles.  
By the time Rhys is out of his office she's flat on their shared desk, asleep.

* * *

  
Rhys never leaves Helios’s database in high spirits.  
The tall shelves are stacked with files and folders with intelligence on expired Hyperion projects, deceased employees, and dangerous bandit warlords.  
The abundance of information couldn't be a more depressing or anxiety-inducing cache if it tried.  
Half of the time, Rhys finds himself gloomily scouring pages which detail the gruesome deaths of former coworkers and employers. Most of them were assholes, but Rhys can't help but feel a twinge of discomfort at their demise, especially because he is likely the cause of them.  
“ _Bull_!” is what Vaughn would offer if he were here _. “Helios was bound to crash land eventually, right? Not your fault_!”  
Vaughn, however, is currently on the other side of the planet on a recruiting mission, and so Rhys has no reason to conjure his regular, glum, “Thanks, Vaughn," but he says it anyway. For funsies.   
It looks like today will be the other type of day Rhys has: the paranoia-filled hair-pullage type when he reads a profile on a new bandit threat.  
Broballski.

He snickers.   
If he doesn't find an existing file, he can leave and initiate Protocol 1. He begins to search, dragging his index finger across the tightly packed folders.  
Broballski...Broballski...  
Heh. There's the file on personnel who have been airlocked. Rhys always has a good time sifting through the hundreds of coworkers who’d cut fate a little too close back at Helios. He wonders if Henderson’s still floating around Elpis.

After nearly half an hour of combing through files, searching through possibly related bandit profiles in other folders, and only a small session of violence against his hair, Rhys concedes that Broballski is in fact new to town with no existing word on him. He sighs as he closes a file titled “Inner Circles of South Western Bandit Warlords”  
This circumstance is familiar: Protocol 1- alert the vault hunters and tell them to keep an ear out for the name.  
As he places back the Inner Circles folder, equipped now with an abundance of knowledge on the hill-billyest of bandits, a different file catches Rhys’s eye. What?  
He’s combed through this section about a hundred times before, and never seen it before: “Interviews”. He opens it to find a glossy digi-screen and a video ready to play.  
“Enhance.” The video moves into physical space in front of Rhys, the holographic imaging pixilated only slightly.  
“Begin.”  
  
“Handsome Jack, sir! How does it feel to wear that mask all the time?”  
“Oh boy, it's like slapping on a onesie fresh out of the dryer.”  
“Sir, if you could be one celebrity for a day, who would it be?”  
“Nathan Fillion. Next question!”

“END!”  
The projection flickers off and the digi-pad clatters to the floor. Rhys doesn't remember doubling over, or clenching a nearby shelf for grip, or losing all of his breath, but...

Nevermind.  
He leaves the database.

 

* * *

 

 

Rhys could tell you about the rest of that day. How he caught up with Fi and Sash and they had frozen yogurt, then how Rhys got an alarming digi-video from Vaughn requesting help in Porthold, how Rhys went alone, and how he was ambushed by a gang of bandits. How he doesn’t know where Vaughn is, or whether or not he remembered to load his gun. How the main leader of the bandit gang is named Broballski.  
Rhys could totally recall all of that information if he wasn't concussed.

Who's he kidding? Blunt force damage aside, he's too annoyed at himself. Why can't he just _think_ before he makes choices?   
There is only one thing Rhys is focused on right now as he lies face first in cave stew, and that’s the beefy bandit hand in his pocket that he feels clamp down on a small cybernetic eye.

He can hear words exchange above him. He can barely string together their meanings in his head.

“Check it out, boss!”

“Whatsit ?”

In situations like these, and there have been many, Rhys finds himself angrily lamenting every action he's taken in the day leading up to the part where shit sucks the most. For example, neglecting to turn on his emergency EchoCom this morning, which would release a distress message and alert Athena that he hadn't entered his code. Opportunity for rescue by a capable vault hunter: missed.

“Little eye thingy.”

Suddenly, and by the power of a person at least 10 times his own strength, Rhys is yanked from the mud, resulting in a thick popping noise as the suction around Rhys’s torso and legs finally releases.

“What's this?” Broballski is huge and speaks slowly through a thick Australian accent, which Rhys had caught a glimpse of when he was first ambushed. Rhys’s fingers twitch minutely as Broballski dangles the cybernetic eye by it’s cord.

“Uh. Well, it's mine.” It's hard to muster the conviction of authority when you're concussed and being dangled like a kitten by its scruff, but Rhys gives it his all.

“Don't look like it,” chuckles Broballski deeply, cupping the small cybernetic in his giant-like hand. His voice seems to reach the depths of all vocal registers when he laughs. “Why do you have it?”

“Um. It's a family heirloom.” Rhys immediately mentally kicks himself.

“Funny, that. Because I remember this particular brand being issued just last year," Broballski sneers, bringing his face closer. “It was all over the vending machines. So I don't really see how this could be a ‘family heirloom’ and all-”

Broballski turns and barks an incomprehensible order at a gangly bandit behind him, then lowers Rhys to the ground. Broballski dangles the eye implant in front of Rhys again, his expression set. “I'm going to ask you a question. Lie to me and you'll regret it.” He pauses. “Is this Handsome Jack?"

Rhys’s blood runs cold.

Yes, but I don't know how much is left of him in there.

Yes, but don't bring him back because he will wreak havoc.

Can you bring him back?

Hello sir I have concussion medical aid please.

Nope! That's a family heirloom!

Let me go you prick.

“Um. Nooo?”

Broballski punches him.

“This IS Handsome Jack! And- I know you- you’re Rhys!”

“Wha-?” How does Broballski know who he is? More importantly, why is Rhys still conscious? Tough noggin, a voice in his head chides. He tells it to shut up right before the second punch lands and everything goes dark.


	2. Chapter 2

Helios, when it stood, had a graffiti problem. Long before Rhys got a job there, even before Tassiter was CEO, the suspended Hyperion station was plagued by the markings and inner dialogue of restless nerds, sprayed in bright colors in the restroom stalls.

That was until the janitorial squad came into existence and graffiti clean up was a regular routine.

The bathroom outside of Rhys’s office division in particular had had a bad case of recurring bright yellow spray paint on one of the toilet stall doors. It read:

_Big Bad Handsome Man_

_He’ll airlock you because he can_

_He rides Butt Stallion_

_Commands battalion_

_But ultimately_

_He has no plan_

Legend has it that the guy who wrote it was airlocked on account of vandalism and unwarranted poetry. 

* * *

 

Rhys is curious as to why this is what he's thinking about as he comes to, but the thought quickly dispels as a wave of some foul odor hits his nostrils.

“Gu-UHP!”

Rhys clamps his hand over his mouth and nose and resists the urge to vomit. His yellow cybernetic eye darts about the room, registering any information available to it.

 **Light sources:** _moonlight streaming through window, creating a peaceful atmosphere and really adding to the whole feng shui of this shithole dungeon._

 **Windows:** _one, small, barred, shaped like a creepy upside down smile._

 **Doors:** _one, of iron build, impenetrable._

 **Floor:** _filthy, but not in the rich or sexy way._

 **Stench:** _you don't want to know. It's the grossest thing I've seen in my goddamn life._

Rhys sighs, pinching his nose. Jack's Echoeye commentary never did wear off.

 

His hands and feet aren't chained. Whoever these goons are, they obviously don't think he’ll attempt an attack and...well, yeah. He could cannonball into one of Elpis’s notorious lava pits and expect a happier ending than in a face off with one of Broballski’s men and women. He wouldn't waste chains on himself either.

He's thankful for the freedom of movement, if just to stretch his stiff limbs. How long has he been here?

Through the crescent shaped window at the far side of his cell blows a quick draft of cool air, and a stream of moonlight illuminates the dust in the tiny room as it swirls. The window, which begins at the height of Rhys’s chin, overlooks a vast topography of rolling hills.

     Better question- where the hell is _here_? Not a cave anymore, apparently.

 _My damn gun_. It was a stupid plan anyway- to bury the Maliwan pistol and then retrieve it at an opportune moment like a ridiculous action star.

At least the bandits don't have it.

Probably.

He snakes his left, flesh hand through the thick iron window bars; his robotic hand clanks uselessly, the large metal fingers finding no passage in the small space.

Judging by the light outside, it's either late evening or early morning.

Or... midnight...

Okay, it doesn't matter.

He's never seen as open a plain on Pandora, unobscured by trees or buildings. It's almost beautiful.

Surely Athena, if awake, is concerned and searching for him. Gathering Zer0 and a few other vault hunters, perhaps, and tracing the location of his Echoeye from his Echocom.

_That would be great, Athena, any time now._

However, Rhys somehow doesn’t count on that being the case. The first thing Athena said when they bought their joint desk was, “I'm going to sleep on this and you're not going to disturb me when I do,” to which he nodded compliantly, the _yes ma’am_ unspoken but implicit.

He'd be surprised if by this time she's even shifted from the spot he left her back in their office.

In Atlas, people stay out of each other’s business; not for any unwelcoming reason, but because people are just that busy. There's no telling who is on what mission or when they'll be back, so why bother wasting time by asking?

That mindset certainly will be addressed and changed when Rhys gets back.

 _If_ he gets back.

Fucking bandits, man.

* * *

 

There's not much else to do in the cell but wait.

Rhys doesn't do that for a very long time before he hears some gears shift and the heavy iron door of his cell swings open. Rhys barely has time to stand in a more confident, controlled position before he is face to face with the beef man himself, Broballski.  
_Broballski_.  
Just... why?

As the large man leans against the doorframe and with a vantage point nearly 10 inches higher than Rhys's, the bandit flashes a fiendish grin down at his prisoner. Rhys notices something about the bandit leader that he hadn't before.  
Well, there's a few things.  
First of all, he has long, red hair, a goatee, and glasses.  
_Well that's a first._  
What may have one time been a slim, lean build is padded with an extra layer of fat and his pockmarked skin has an unhealthy green tinge to it.

But Rhys is focusing on something else.

  
The way his whole body shifts and moves is awkward, his steps distributing more weight than it seems he intends. Almost as if his gravity is off...  
He must be from Elpis.  
  
Broballski certainly wouldn't be the first bandit to immigrate from Pandora’s purple moon to the planet in the weeks and months following Helios’ fall. Rumor has it that in the time since, Elpis has become a complete and utter shitstorm, though Rhys never investigated why.  
All he knew was that an emerging population of bandit warlords were having a very hard time lifting their beefy legs off the surface of Pandora.

In fact, when the first wave of Elpians surfaced, Vaughn had introduced an idea for an Atlas-run program to help Elpian newcomers adjust to Pandoran gravity. It was a cute idea until Sasha pointed out that the newcomers weren't all exactly friendly.  
The project was pushed to the side and ultimately forgotten about.

Does the gravity adjustment make Broballski sloppy? It did for the last bandit warlord. Surely Rhys would have some sort of advantage in combat...

  
“So this is how this will go,” Broballski heaves.  
“Pretty boy is going to spend some time in here, with you,” he gestures behind him, to a figure Rhys hadn't noticed. His stomach churns unpleasantly.

“And I'll be back in the morning to check in, and we'll have a good time then, yeah?”

When Broballski turns around and pushes the figure forward, Rhys sucks in a breath, and as the man stumbles into view there's no mistaking the chiseled features, the high cheekbones, and air of power that surrounds him, even when being shoved unceremoniously.

  
Handsome Jack doesn't tumble into the room the way Rhys would have.  
Instead, some sort of well groomed internal balance keeps him on his feet.

 

 

But he doesn't look good.

His masked face is pale and sweat stricken.

  
“Sleep tight, lads.”

  
Jack stays on his feet until the giant iron door swings shut, and then collapses against the wall and pitches forward, unconscious.

  
Rhys doesn't think he noticed him.  
This’ll be fun.


	3. Chapter 3

**Scanning...**

**Handsome** **Jack** : _Hey, that's me! Oof, I'm not looking so good, huh?_

 **Ribs** : _not great, ha-hah!_

 **Neck** : _Owww, what the hell?!_

 **Abs** : _On POINT._

Just...a shit ton of questions.

Is this Jack, first of all. 

If so, which version?

Is it possible to  resurrect a resurrection? The engineer in Rhys says _hell no and here's why,_ but the part of Rhys who experienced first-hand Nakayama’s enthusiasm towards reviving Handsome Jack isn't as confident. 

        Rhys realizes that this is the first time he is seeing Jack up close in the true flesh. His features are different when they're not all blue. And he’s... corporeal? If Rhys wants, he can _touch_ Handsome Jack? Rhys suddenly finds it very hard to breathe. This...whatever it is- is becoming increasingly too much. _This is too much, I can't, I can't_.

The closest he's ever come to touching Jack was years ago, when the then CEO spit gum on him in the halls of Helios, though Rhys is pretty sure that even then he was aiming for someone else.

At the time, Rhys might have...well...kept the gum. Hey, it was back in Jack’s Big Sexy Grand CEO poster days when Jack-gum was all the rage! If he harboured an intense crush on the executive he was no different from the hundreds of other coworkers surrounding him. Vaughn, though, had somehow stayed immune.

“Corporate executives are all fun and dandy until they push you into a space vacuum. Even my kinks don't go quiiite that far. No thanks!” he'd say, though with a sympathetic ear to Rhys's more than obvious... well. Obsession is a bit harsh? It's not an obsession. Was not an obsession. It is and never was an obsession. Just a, uh, quirk. Heh-heh?

 

Forget it.

He'd left the gum in a little jar on a table next to all of his Handsome Jack motivational posters. There was never enough time to visit his office on the retrieve-Gortys-piece heist to check if it was still there and obviously the cubicle was destroyed in the crash of Helios, but he'd like to imagine his container of gum and motivational kitten posters still surviving in space, bumping into each other aimlessly in the zero atmosphere.

 

    Jack really does look different in his natural tone. Rhys isn't sure if it's more or less intimidating. 

When Jack was roaming around in Rhys’s head, it was weird. He knew if the circumstance was reversed, and big bad corporate executive Jack came to consciousness with a lanky gun engineer futzing around in his brain, Jack wouldn't have given Rhys the time of day. Probably would have killed him on the spot and not blinked twice.

But that's not what happened.

It had almost been fun. Rhys never owned much for himself and then he had the most powerful man in the world answering only to him.

 

Rhys feels his fingers stretch forward to test the skin before him.

Jack’s eyes open.

Rhys stops breathing.

Huh. Heterochromia.

How did he not notice that before?

“It's not that I'm turned _off,_ per say,” Jack begins roughly as Rhys retracts, ears pink.

“Shut up.” He could've sworn Jack was unconscious. Why can't he think before he does stupid shit? He scoots back to his corner.

Jack sits up slowly, painstakingly.

“You’re staring daggers at me, just FYI,” Jack’s voice, though abrasive, lacks its usual swagger.

“What gives, cupcake?”

A long pause, and then they speak at the same time.

“Fuck you, Jack.”

“Do I know you, dipshit?”

* * *

 

Back on Helios, it was commonplace to meet someone, perceive them as not-an-asshole, and then later meet again to be entirely forgotten about, either authentically or for show. Rhys would wager he'd done it a least dozen times himself.

Hell, his and Vasquez’s whole rivalry began when they kept doing it to each other and denying it until one day it escalated and was blown way out of proportion. An exploding ventilation system was involved. Corporate scumbags are corporate scumbags; big whoop.

So when Jack says, “Do I know you?”

Rhys immediately freezes. _Shit_.

 _Is he serious_? The light streaming in through the small crescent window suddenly seems much brighter than before. Handsome Jack is still standing in front of him. _Say the words._

“You... know who I am.” He isn't sure if he’s making a statement or asking a question.

“You famous or something?” Handsome Jack asks, popping a pretzel in his mouth ( _where the hell did that come from_?) then shakes his head sardonically. “No, of course not. I _know_ all the famous people.”

Jack's eyes land on Rhys’s right arm and his shoulders seem to relax a small fraction.

“Hey-Hey! That's what I call Hyperion-lookin’ tech. Good choice, kiddo. We are still number one, huh? Thanks to me, of course.”

 

        It's like deja vu of the first time they met; Rhys gaping and Jack babbling. But this time is worse. This time, Jack is corporeal. Alive, speaking, able to make impressions on people and things other than Rhys...

And apparently he has no idea who Rhys is.

It makes sense.

Does it? Everyone ends up forgetting him eventually, so what does it matter anyway.

This is too much. This is too much.

_He's probably fucking with you._

_Make him stop talking._

He pinches the bridge of his nose and speaks over Jack the only thing he can think to say. Bluntly.

“You died on Pandora, Jack. Angel too.”

“-look familiar in a corporate lackey kind of way, do I know... What did you just say to me?”

Rhys continues, head still in hand. “You're daughter, uh, Angel. Was killed by a vault hunter named Lilith. And then you were killed by Zer0. That's what he said, anyway. I'm not sure if I believe that entirely, but it's his word over Claptrap’s and that robot can go fu-”

Hands close around Rhys’s throat like a vice, the weight of a body much heavier than his suddenly pinning him to the stone wall. Rhys feels a thrill of horror run through his bruising supernatural pine and up his neck. So fucking stupid. Had he completely forgotten the privilege of transparent holo-Jack?

“See here, _sweetheart_ ,” Jack hisses, grip tight and VERY corporeal. “It makes me feel like I have better social skills than you do,” his fingers clench, “when you say shit like that to me.” Winded and hurt though he may be, Jack’s vice-like grip lives up to its reputation.

Would this have happened the first time they met, had Jack been a solid figure? _Just let me strangle you, just one time._

Rhys feels his fingers grasp at Jack’s hands on his neck.

Is this how it felt for Jack when Rhys killed him?

“I’ll throw you out a goddamn airlock, understand?”

 _We’re not on a space station anymore, Jack_.

 

In the grand scheme, at least it’s a death by somebody he knows. Although... does he _know_ Handsome Jack?

Amendment: at least it will be a death by someone who is competent with Pandoran gravity. There. Ever the optimist, Rhys.

“J’AG,” he chokes out.

Suddenly the pressure dissipates. The grip goes slack. The feral look in Jack's eyes diminishes. He drops his hand and Rhys’s legs give out from under him. There's a crunching sound as he drops painfully onto his knees.

 

On his knees before Jack. This used to be the dream.

 

“You should've seen the look on your face, dipshit!”

He looks up.

Jack cackles mirthlessly.

“Feels so good to finally strangle you. Oh _boy_ do I love to feel shit again! Back there when they were punching the shit outta me- hoo Nelly did that feel _good_.”

Rhys doesn't think he throws the punch correctly because his hand immediately begins to swell, but he doesn't care because he needs to do it again, and again, and again. He needs to cause lasting damage to the smarmy, entitled jerk before him, but Jack dodges the next throw easily, so Rhys headbutts him and like a good dumdum, he aims for the bridge of the nose. This time he finds purchase, but as Rhys swings his forehead down onto Jack's brow, Jack latches onto Rhys, pulling him forward and down, using Rhys’s own momentum against him. They topple and Rhys hits his head, hard, on the hard stone floor below. Rhys feels something wet slide down his brow. Whether it's blood or sweat he doesn't really care.

He's essentially straddling Handsome Jack and this used to be something he dreamed about and it's only making him more angry.

“Are you done, ballerina?” Jack grabs at Rhys's wrist, face curled in an annoyed snarl. “You... son of a bitch... Jack,” Rhys pants. “You do realize that you've...ruined... _everything_...for me. Right? You realize that?”

The grip moves to his waist and strengthens, crushing his ribs painfully. Jack spits out in unconcealed rage.

“And what about me, _Rhysie_? You think it was in my plan to get stuck on this stinking garbage pail of a planet with a dumbass like you?!”

Rhys feels his weight bear down into Jack's lap with increased pressure.

“You're a psychopath, Jack!”

“You're a defenseless kitten!”

“...Maybe so, but you’re-”

“Fuck you, I don't have to listen!”

“I fucking hate you!”

“I fucking hate _you_!” Rhys feels himself unconsciously rock against Jack’s groin and Jack's hands have drifted down to his hips.  

“AND ONE more thing-”

The unexpected noise makes Rhys’s heart jump to his throat as he launches out of Jack's lap. Within a matter of microseconds he is flattening his back against the furthest wall with the hope that with enough pressure the structure might absorb him. His upper back skids painfully against the rough stone.

In the doorway, Broballski blinks for a moment in apparent surprise, his face almost innocent-looking, eyes darting from Rhys in his corner to Jack still lying flat on his back, who has yet made no movement into a less indicative position of what...might have just happened? What may have beginning to start? Rhys’s head is spinning.

_Were we just about to-?_

Broballski chuckles darkly as he assumes captor persona once more, his features hardening into something more foul.

“That was fast.”

He turns his back to the men in the room and calls out.

“What was it- 3 minutes?”

“Justh abouth, bosth!” comes a saliva-loaded reply.

Even in his dazed state, Rhys instinctively laughs. He hasn't encountered all that many bandits on Pandora; the few times he's been involved in skirmishes, he’s ducked under cover while Sasha cackles like a maniac over whatever gun she's using. Relatively speaking, he doesn't have much first-hand experience to speak of. But a bandit with a lisp...What the hell?

The stink eye Broballski shoots him as he flips back into the cell is enough to make Rhys wish he could control his impulse to make fun of people.

“Well,” Broballski begins to make a movement toward him, scowling.

“I guess it’s time.”

“Time for wh-OWW,” As Broballski snags him by the ear, Rhys catches a glimpse of a lanky looking guy in the doorway, covered from head to toe in bandit garb and holding a nasty looking semi-automatic.

Rhys turns to look hopelessly towards Jack, who's sitting up now. He shoots Rhys a sardonic thumbs up.

Asshole, thinks Rhys miserably as he's dragged out of the cell.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Rhys never thought he'd say this, but he misses the time he and Fiona were trapped on a cliff in the middle of an ice storm and his flesh hand nearly froze.

And he misses the time in the speed wagon when Vaughn pressed the big red button Scooter specifically said not to which caused a huge explosion and made Rhys deaf for the day and rendered Vaughn’s profuse apologies unheard.

Or that time he and Sasha kissed, which had been so violently tender that afterward they were both quick to shrug off the brutal intimacy, swear never to do it again, and attempt a high five but miss.

Rhys loves all of those moments now. Because they DON'T INVOLVE SLAPPING.

Rhys doesn't have a very high pain tolerance.

SLAAAAAAP

The noise echoes in the room they’re in, a wider cell than the one before, loaded with various sinister looking contraptions hooked into the walls and lying on tables. The funny thing is that they have guns. Surely there are more interesting ways they could be killing him right now, right?

SLAAAAPPP

Rhys doesn't want a slap death. Anything but a slap death.

Hell, he'd even give away valuable Atlas information at this point but weirdly they don't seem to want it. Do they even realize how important Rhys is? He’s the CEO of Atlas, surely some interrogation is warranted, right? He's mildly offended. He scans Broballski with his eye again, if just to give himself something to do.

**_Scanning:_ **

**Name: Bro¿Ba?ll &&$ski**

**Occupation: ¿¿¿???**

**Motive: ¿¿¿???**

The scanner has been rejecting the scan each time. Even if it wasn't doing that, the eye isn’t super helpful in anything other than spouting exposition and describing things he can already see. Kind of a waste of money.

The huge, red-haired glasses-wearing bandit barely looks Rhys’s way as his hand strikes down for another blow.

How could someone's hands be that powerful.

 

Is anyone even looking for him?

Athena might finally have realized how replaceable Rhys is as an employee and moved on.

He doesn't really notice when he starts to wish holo-Jack were here, sharing the pain with him, as if the blue figure was somehow a more acceptable companion than the Jack in the cell.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So fun fact every time I misspell Rhys it autocorrects to Arby's so this is a Handsome Jack/Arby's fic from now on thought you should know.


	4. Chapter 4

There was a lot of trial and error that happened before Gortys located the Dome. Over the course of about 3 weeks, the decked out speedwagon drove in circles, entered into a disturbing amount of never-ending tunnels, and explored almost every tundra and rocky wasteland the planet had to offer.

With the murder-via-Helios no longer such a looming and easily-attained possibility, Rhys pretty much skipped from one location to the next.  
He knew deep in his heart that if Vaughn could move any of his limbs, he be feeling just as relaxed, and if Yvette wasn’t so strung out in Hyperion keeping them protected from Vasquez, she'd feel happy for them both.  
For once, he was aligned with a team that had his back, with no Helios backstabs or airlocks to worry about!  
Plus, he had a flying robot friend.  
The thing with Jack was kind of freaky but also...satisfying?

However, on one treacherous day, Gortys the so-called Pandora-expert-navigator (okay, Rhys was the one to lease the title, but still) ran them straight into a cliff, leaving the front portion of the wagon to dangle precariously over the looming thousand foot drop, and sending everyone in a panic in the back portion, doing everything possible to weigh the thing down. Long story short- Loader Bot got a bit confused when Sasha said “Get back!” and decided instead to smash a window, and then when Athena was dragging Vaughn, his paralyzed body kind of swiped at Rhys and Rhys jumped back impulsively except he was a bit clumsy and accidentally launched himself out of the window and then Fiona tried to catch him but she lost balance because she's also sometimes clumsy and so...

In the chaos, he and Fiona had both somehow slipped out of the caravan and headed down into the long drop.

  
_Nice going, cupcake._

  
With reflexes Rhys definitely didn't possess on his own, his robotic arm latched onto a jagged rock and somehow the two clumsiest Pandorans alive managed to get down the mountain and eventually meet everyone at the bottom, once the caravan situation was sorted.  
He guesses it could have gone worse, and he got to spend some time climbing down the mountain with Fiona, whom he never seemed to share more than a few passing moments with for some reason.

“Nice gloves.”  
“I’m not wearing any.”  
“What? Yes you are.”  
“Um, no?”  
“I’m literally looking at one right now.”  
“Oh, gloves. I thought you said socks. I got mixed up, my bad.”  
“You’re wearing socks too, though.”  
“I know, I was trying to mess with you.”  
“What?”  
“I was trying to pretend that I wasn’t wearing socks.”  
“What?”  
“It would have been funny. You would have laughed.”  
“No I wouldn’t have. That doesn’t even qualify as a joke- that's just weird.”  
“It’s not weird, it’s.. genius, okay?”  
“It’s hardly ‘messing with me’. It's just lying about wearing socks. It makes no sense.”  
“Can we just drop this, please?”  
“Plus, I know you’d never depart with your precious striped socks.”  
“Ugh.”

  
“Seriously though, nice gloves”  
“Thanks”  
“Heavy duty.”  
“Yep.”

“You'd think cyber-hands wouldn't need protection from the cold.”  
“Yeah, well I don't think Hyperion had crazy Pandora weather fluctuations in mind when they issued these so I'm not taking any chances.”  
“Good thinking.”  
“I'd take a bow if it didn't mean we'd plummet to our respective deaths.”  
“Yeaaah, maybe save it for later.”

 

But the thing that Rhys remembers most about this day was the night.

When darkness fell on the wasteland, the  gang sat around a huge fire nursing their wounds and chatting; Loaderbot and Gortys discussing winter fashion and how it ranks much higher than summer fashion; Sasha happily tinkering with a small gadget she found in the last abandoned town; Fi and Athena discussing battle technique in the wagon; Dumpy screaming at a paralyzed and traumatized Vaughn; and closest to the flame, his back to a bank of strange desert moss, sat Rhys and, unbeknownst to everyone else, Jack.  
Rhys half-expected Jack to assume the role of the headache-inducing chatterbox like he always did when Rhys wanted to take a peaceful moment, maybe taking the time to brag about his stellar reflexes that saved their asses earlier. But this night, Jack stretched out wordlessly before the fire, leaning nearby against the moss ridge.

“I know, it's like, why wear one hat if you have two? Just wear all the hats!”

Rhys smiled at the sound of Gortys and out of the corner of his eye he could tell Jack was doing the same.

For a long time, the pair watched the roaring flame in an unusual silent appreciation.

At one point late at night, Rhys thought about how Jack couldn't feel the heat of the flame, and it made him sad.

Sometime later, Rhys leaned in towards Jack and had to catch himself before he tilted right into the dirt, hand passing through Jack's thigh. He quickly moved a few inches away. He didn't catch Jack’s small smile.  
Somehow by the end of the night they ended up side by side again.

When he thinks about that night, Rhys feels strangely cheated out of...something.  
Because when he woke up the next morning, his head wasn't in Jack's lap like it would have been if Jack was corporeal. Instead, his head was looking straight through Jack's blue crotch.  
It kind of killed the mood.

  
_It's all bullshit._

Rhys doesn't want to think about Jack anymore.

He's in this stupid situation because of Jack, probably, and he didn't even know the guy that well.

  
Jack doesn't deserve his stupid thoughts.

  
Rhys is tired of being slapped.  
He's sick of the relentless thwack that results every time the stupid bandit lord slaps his face, or back of his neck, or collarbone.

On top of the bruises he got from fighting with Jack. 

  
_It's bullshit, it's bullshit, this all is bullshit_.

So when the palm swipes down once more to pummel his face, Rhys makes a weird choice.

He knows it's weird, but he doesn't care.  
Time slows as he positions his feet firmly in the muddy ground; his cybernetic eye adjusts, tracking movements and doing math and tells Rhys when to open his mouth in an ugly yawn and position his teeth in a way that catches the meaty hand.  
Like a dog snagging a frisbee, Rhys clamps down on the hand with a satisfying squelch.  
Blood spurts from Broballski's right hand, and like beautiful red ribbons, it arcs all the way up to the 20 foot high ceiling, where it splatters and sticks.

The limp, dismembered hand falls silently to the floor.

Time resumes.  
Blood drips from Rhys’s mouth.

After a second of stunned silence, where all breath seems to be snuffed out of the atmosphere, the only bandit in the room begins to clap.  
Rhys almost can't believe it until several more bandits enter the room who also begin to clap and cheer, and as it slowly mounts Broballski tearfully joins in, and then he's banging his remaining hand on a neighboring table and telling Rhys how proud he is.  
They take off their shirts and pour Gatorade on him.  
It's glorious.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your comments and kudos, they mean the world to me.


	5. Chapter 5

Rhys sits with his knees drawn up to his chest in his prison cell, fingers repeating the same tracing movement against his aching cheekbones and nose. The bite attack, which ended up being feeble in reality- a strange and sporadic chomp down on Broballski’s smallest finger- had at the time seemed really cool, but now weighs heavily on his reddened and thoroughly slapped skin.

Across the small cell through the murky silence stands Jack, hands clamping angrily around the bars of the crescent shaped window. Every few moments he makes a different aggravated sound, and Rhys can almost see the different gears turning in the head of his...  
Former-Boss? Enemy? Frenemy?

No, not quite. Not anymore.

 _Prison pal. Prison pal who I almost made sexy with._  
Good enough.

  
When Rhys was dropped back in the cell, Jack had spat out a harsh bark of laughter.  
“Ho-ho! Nice bruises, pumpkin. Enjoy the initiation?”

Rhys lowered himself to the ground and shot Jack a piercing look that probably just came off as miserable.  
“It was just peachy, Jack. I can always use more pointless slapping in my life, it's my favorite.”  
Jack leaned back against his wall, apparently unfazed by the silence that followed.  
Trying confidence for once, Rhys started.  
“Are we going to talk abo-”  
“No!”

That was hours ago.

Judging by the dark silhouette of Jack, light streaming around his body and making him hard to look at, it's now about sunset. Sunset of his second day here.

By this point, Athena and Fiona should be assembling a search team. Maybe Sasha and a few vault hunters. Maybe even Zer0.  
They should probably have at least 10 well-trained recruits on task: is that too much to ask? He legitimately doesn't know; he's not in charge of the recruitment team.

Silently, Rhys wishes them all luck.

For the first time in hours, Jack lets out a noise close to that of a growl and spins to face Rhys, his white handed grip remaining at one of the window bars.

“Okay, look,” he says through gritted teeth, “Obviously, we have some things to work out. Yes, I tried to take over your puny little body. Yes, I used you every inch of the way to get back up to Hyperion. Yes, I most certainly will abandon you the second we escape this piece of shit base, but-”

Anger flares inside Rhys. He stands, ignoring the soreness in his limbs for sitting for so long.  
“Then why are you even talking to me?”

“I’ll get you out -  
“Bullshit!”  
“-If you help me get out, dipshit!”  
With that, the wrought iron bar of the window finally snaps off, Jack’s hand still wrapped around it firmly.  
“HA!” He shouts, holding up the bar like a trophy.

“And that,” says Jack,“is how you begin an escape, cupcake. Catch.”  
He throws the bar to Rhys, who instinctively raises his hands to defend his face as it drops to the floor where it hits with an unpleasant, resounding CLAANG.

There's an overbearing amount of self-satisfaction coming from Jack’s side of the room.  
“You suck Jack. You can't even be happy, you're so smarmy.”  
“Same thing.”  
“Smugness is not the same thing as happiness you psychopath.”

Jack takes a methodical step forward, closing in on Rhys’s personal space and Rhys unconsciously takes a step back, suddenly feeling the danger in the tiny room.

Rhys’s gaze finds his own muddy boots, not daring to look up.

  
When he finally does, it's to the sight of Jack at the window, tugging at a second iron bar. 


	6. Chapter 6

 

On one of those first nights on Pandora, when the girls and Vaughn were scrambling to put a meal together for four people, Rhys had somehow wound up acting as sniper in the rocks above a bandit encampment.  
Rhys had never fired a gun when he lived on Helios, which was unusual for someone who worked in the Weapons Engineering and Upgrade department, but he was proud not to have done it.

“Super rare!” Sasha had exclaimed when she dropped the heavy Morningstar rifle his lap, which he only recognized because _he_ designed it. It wasn't as rare as she thought.  
The plan was for him to cover the sisters with the sniper while they snuck in and grabbed some food.  
And he was freaking out.  
“Don't panic. Oookay. Don't panic. How hard could it be? You made this...dang...thing.”  
He could see Fiona and Sasha in position at the camp entrance, signaling him to take out the patrol guard. His heart plunged into his stomach as his finger brushed up against the trigger.  
“Shit shit shit.”  
“Settle down, cupcake.” Left ear. Low voice. He found the holographic blue in his periphery and shivered.  
“Jack?”  
“Breathe. Raise your right arm and shoulder the rifle, get the butt of the gun in that pocket on your right side. Elbows down. Cheek against the stock. Now, press down, don't pull.”  
The recoil bumped heavily against Rhys’ chest as the guard collapsed to the ground.  
Though he couldn't feel it, Jack’s hands rested on his hips.  
“Well done, kitten,” Jack purred, and whispered instructions to Rhys until the bandit camp was drained.  
“Jack.”  
“Shh.”

* * *

 

  
Quiet.  
Very quiet.

 

  
The window in their cell had been too small for either of them to wriggle through, but by the time Jack was done stripping it, each man had two iron bars. The plan was simple: spring the guards the next time they come, find the exit, get out. Kill whatever they have to, just not each other. Worry about the rest afterwards.

“Do you even know this Broballski guy?”  
If Jack is perturbed by Rhys’s question, it doesn't show.  
“Never heard of him.”  
“Well, he knows you for sure.”  
“My face and voice is on all things worthwhile in this galaxy, kiddo; there'd be a problem if he didn't know me.”  
“Well, we know he's from his galaxy, then, right?”  
“Elpis, obviously. The accents and gravity shift.”  
Rhys deflates slightly; he thought he'd been smart for figuring that one out. Jack has clearly been paying attention, probably more-so than Rhys.

“So,” says Jack, “how's our favorite muscle-bound maniac?”  
The question startles Rhys.  
“Vaughn? I...I don't know actually.” He admits. “He was on a recruiting mission when I got a mayday message from him; that's when they nabbed me,” he clarifies at Jack’s raised eyebrow. “Broballski or whatever must have hacked my comms. I hope he hacked my comms.”

“Recruiting mission, huh? Guess you managed to snag Atlas. Congrats on finally becoming the heartless CEO of your boner dreams.”

“Thanks?”

“Sucks about bike-boy. That's why you should never get close to people. They'll shit in your sandwich and make you pay the bill.”

“Alright, first of all: Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww. Second, I wasn't thinking that Vaughn betrayed me, or anything; get a grip. I just hope he's safe.”  
He pauses.  
“You never get close to anyone?”

_Not even to me?_

“Trust me, cupcake, you don't want to go down the caring-about-people road. It just makes every fuck-up feel ten times worse.”

There is the sound of jingling keys outside.  
Jack puts a finger up and presses against the wall.  
The door unlocks.  
Quiet.  
Very quiet.  
Rhys nods.  
The door swings open.  
“Alright, lover boys, ‘ballski’s got something- HEY!”

The first guard- Rhys knows his name is Bobo-catches Jack’s swing right in the belly, where it impacts like a mallet pounding on a gong; with a roar, he rears backwards into a second thug- a guy called Fringo- who quickly ducks down and lets Bobo roll over his back and onto the floor.

Something metal goes clattering into the hallway.  
Rhys’s first swing collides with Fringo’s head while Jack jumps over the guy on the ground.

He dodges a swipe from Fringo, but doesn't have time to feel happy with himself about it before a second, meaty hand comes up to clench around Rhys’s throat.

  
Rhys gasps as his windpipe is closed off and his feet are lifted off the ground.  
“Rhys, catch!”  
Something long, thin, and metal finds its way into Rhys’ hand. Without thinking, he swings.

He gulps for air as an electric pulse blasts Fringo away into the furthest wall. He clatters unmoving to the floor.  
“Huh.” Rhys inspects the electric rod in his grip.

Some things never change.

  
On the ground, a desperate voice rasps.  
“Please... please... don't kill me..” Bobo's hands claw at Jack’s knee on his throat.  
“Why the shit not?”  
“Have... information..”  
“You have 10 seconds to impress me.”  
“There’s a plan, in the science lab...Broballski..I'll show you. I'll take you there, it's down the hall...to the left...Your eye, revive-!"  
Rhys peers out into the hallway anxiously, not sure of just how much noise they just made.  
“Jack, I'm pretty sure we need to take two rights for the exit... it's not that big of a facility so there might be more guys around the corner. I say we have a distract team for the main room- that can be you, while I snag Broballski from behind and grab his guns.”

  
There's a scuffle behind him. When Rhys turns around, Jack is supporting himself on the wall, breathing hard.

Bobo is... ugh. Rhys forces himself to look away.  
“Are you...what’s up?” Rhys moves closer, tentatively placing a hand on Jack’s shoulder.  
“Get off,” he snarls.  
Rhys half-expects Jack to snatch the electric rod out of his hands, but he just shoves past and into the hallway.

There's a silent, scary understanding that Rhys with an electric weapon still is no match for an unarmed Handsome Jack; Rhys chooses not to dwell on it.

“The exit’s to the right-hey!” Rhys gets yanked by the collar of his shirt.  
“We’re taking a detour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: I went back and edited some chapters. No major alterations, and nothing that affects plot, but I had a few gripes with passages here and there.  
> As always, thanks for reading. I hope the holiday season is finding you well.


	7. Chapter 7

  
Rhys’ sweaty fingers clamp down on his electric rod. Jack's scrapped the stealth part of the stealth mission.  
“Bastards stole my tech, they must have. Where's the justice? No honesty anymore!”  
“Jack.”  
He's been babbling for the past few minutes now as they clatter through the nail riddled hallway outside of their cell. It's so narrow that only one person can move comfortably at a time; Jack’s in front.  
“I mean, there's just no principle these days!”  
“Jack.”  
Behind them and deeper in the facility Rhys can hear yelling. Everyone is aware that he and Jack are loose. _Great_.  
“Used to be: you wouldn't play with tech until it was loose on the market but Nooooo! Gotta go digging in the unfinished projects now.”  
“Jack.”  
Rhys’ boots barely protect his feet anymore. Every pounding step against the floor is a direct blow to his heels. Everything is painful in some capacity. It doesn't help when he nearly slams into Jack’s back.  
“No honor code! Completely ridiculous...”  
“JACK. Where are we going?”  
Jack shoots him a dangerous glance, then releases the grip on Rhys’s forearm, which hadn't faltered while he pulled him through the cramped facility. They've stopped dead in the middle of the hallway by a single door.  
“Science lab.”  
Jack demolishes the door with a kick to it’s center.  
“Pretty sure that was unlocked.”   
A quick glance inside and the room more closely resembles a walk-in closet or a wide broom cupboard than a science lab. There's a lot of trash and not much space.  
There's some chains and ropes that secure a large, clunky machine called **_“Gravity Clench”_** according to Rhys’s Echo Eye. A small circular device that looks like some of the retro CD players Vaughn used to collect that his Eye identifies as **_“Revive”_** whirs next to a meticulously drawn depiction of a rocket named **_“Gryffin.”_** There's about a dozen flash drives scattered in the area.  
Rhys can feel the heat radiating off of Jack as they examine the tech.  
The whirring CD player has a drive inserted, and like all the other drives it has a line of white tape labeled “Handsome Jack” on it.  
“Knew it,” Jack mutters as he pockets the whole machine.  
“What the hell is-” Fast footsteps outside make Rhys freeze in the center of the room, directly within view of any passerby. With trained reflexes, Jack scoops Rhys off his feet and pushes him against the wall next to the destroyed door, the larger man essentially shrouding Rhys’s entire body with his own.  
The footsteps come to a halt outside their room and the door, which hangs limply off of it’s hinges.  
Rhys must be breathing heavily because in the next moment, Jack’s left hand comes up to cover his mouth. His lips graze the skin of Jack’s palm and he inhales, each man’s pair of heterochromic eyes trained on the other’s. Rhys finds his hands fisted in Jack’s shirt. Jack smells like sweat. Rhys barely notices when Jack's right hand starts scaling slowly across his chest, but it becomes more noticeable as it trails further down and Rhys begins to feel a stir in the pit of his stomach. Jack moves down Rhys’s waist and rests lightly at his hip, where he minutely squeezes. The contact is intoxicating. Rhys looks at Jack squarely and kisses his palm.

“OY!” There's a loud voice further down the hall. Rhys tenses, locked in place, before the footsteps that paused outside resume and then the hallway is soundless once more.  
Jack moves first, pulling away from Rhys and stiffly indicating the cluster of flash drives.  
“Grab those.”  
Rhys rolls into action, trying very hard to behave normally. He clears his throat.  
“You really gonna steal from your number one fan?”  
“Oh, don't worry, princess, that's _your_ title.”  
Rhys wills his cheeks to return to their normal color and buries the flash drives in his pockets.  
Is this what it was like for the vault hunters who worked with Jack when he was alive the first time? Blindly running after Jack into deadly situations with nothing but a crappy weapon and an undercurrent of sexual tension?  
No wonder Athena had such a problem with him.  
Oh God. Athena. Assuming Rhys even manages to get home, to Atlas, there isn't exactly a protocol for Jack not being dead... again.  
“We’re getting out of here now,” Jack begins cooly. “Down the hallway to the right, and then through the torture room and out the exit.”  
“Fine,” says Rhys, not meeting his eye as he moves to the door.  
“Wait. Look at me,” says Jack. “Your eye is yellow.”  
“Yeah?  
“It was blue.”  
“Oh. I needed a new one. After, you know...”  
“Do you remember what you said to me?”  
“Huh?”  
“Before you killed me.”  
“Yes, do share, Rhysie,” Broballski growls from the empty door frame. A slashing sensation arcs through Rhys’s upper right torso before he can jump back far enough.   
Then the pain hits. He feels very warm and liquidy as he crumples to the floor. 


	8. Chapter 8

“ _You ready for this, cupcake? Big day ahead. Heading up to the big H in the sky.”_  
“I hardly think going back to Helios will be the most interesting thing to happen this week, but sure.”  
Rhys fiddled with his- well, Vasquez’s- hair in the oval bathroom mirror.  
“Nervous?”  
“Me? No! No.” He prodded at his jacket, smoothing the pockets. “Just as long as I can reach Yvette, and the rocket doesn't collapse, and Finch and Kroger don’t shoot us, and everyone thinks I'm Vasquez,” he checked his voice modifier, “and Gortys finds her piece we should be fine.”  
Through the the small bathroom window, outside Rhys could see an enthusiastic Sasha talking to Janey and waving her arms, her sister beside her a little more muted in her excitement, but excited nonetheless.  
“Totally fine. We’re so screwed.”  
Rhys wanted to address the thing they had, like now, where Jack’s holographic hands would come to rest on his hips or on top of his hand, and when Jack would laugh Rhys could tell if he meant it or not, and how Rhys really wished Jack were a solid body so that he could push his fingers through the masked man’s hair and understand its weight and texture.

_He didn't say anything. But if Jack was really there he would have kissed him._

* * *

  
Rhys’s face is smushed against the floor. He huffs in a breath and sucks up some of his hair. There's a sickly scent of iron.  
_Why can't people just get along._  
It’s like all sensation in his body has been directed to emphasize the pain in his shoulder as blood gushes out. Everything else in the world has been muted, including the sound of Broballski's voice above him, taunting Jack with words Rhys can’t string together.  
Rhys winces as a boot lands heavily an inch away from his face.  
“I mean, we don't really need him around to settle this, do we?”  
The boot smells like blood. His blood?  
In the tight corridor outside, there's a thunder of footsteps and voices.  
“He killed Bobo!”  
“Over here!”  
“Out of my way!”  
“Bosth! Bosth!”  
Bandits. Goons. Torturers.  
_So, so screwed. They're gonna kill us to death._ Pain spikes through his neck as he struggles to lift it. He wants to tell Jack to just kill him now.  
There's a quick rustle from where Jack stands and he says something. Broballski removes his foot and stumbles back a pace.  
Then Jack’s voice again. _I love his voice. I love..._  
The footsteps stop outside the room.  
“You killed Bobo!”  
“After ‘im!”  
“NO. LET THEM GO,” Broballski’s voice crushes the room into silence.  
_He's letting us go?_  
Rhys tenses when someone moves toward him. Then he's being lifted up gently, so very gently, flesh arm circling around Jack’s waist. But the cybernetic one doesn't respond and he panics.  
“You're okay,” Jack murmurs into his hair, pressing something into his pocket. “Hold onto this.” The gesture feels kind.  
“This isn’t over,” Broballski says to Jack.  
“Yeah, leave a complaint at my desk. I check it every turn of the millennium.”  
“I know about your girl.”  
Jack stops.  
“ _Jack...?”_  
“This. Is _definitely_ not over,” Jack says through gritted teeth, and walks through the door with Rhys limping alongside.  
A crowd of confused bandits wait outside in the hallway, weapons cocked. The hallway is so cramped that it takes an organized effort of having the bandits shuffle backwards out of it. Rhys’s entire right side feels hot and numb but he can't stop laughing.  
Then he blinks and they're at the exit.  
It's a sunny day.

Broballski joins the procession of confused bandits as Jack pulls him away from the wide squat building with a banner across the front door reading “ **AHS** ”.  
Rhys flips Broballski off weakly as his face grows smaller and smaller.  
Why is he letting us go?

He blacks out for a bit.

When he comes to, his feet are no longer on the ground.  
“Wha...happ’nd?”  
Jack doesn't answer. There’s a crease between his eyebrows as he plows forward, taking on Rhys’s weight in his arms.  
“Jack..what'd... I say to you...before I killed you?”  
He doesn't even remember. He can hardly remember anything from that encounter other than it sucked for multiple reasons. He trusts the conviction in the other man’s voice when he responds, somewhat abrasively,  
“Goodbye, Jack.”  
That sounds right.  
He presses back onto Jack’s compact chest.  
Deep breathing.  
Warm.  
He stays there for a while.

  
There's a wonderful moment when Rhys first wakes up where he really believes that he dreamed the entire week up, and is in fact lying in bed at home after a long nap. It's an easy mistake to make; the room he’s in is actually a lot like his first dorm on Helios before he moved in with Vaughn; small and corporate-looking, with furniture in the shape of H’s everywhere. Hyperion always did go overboard with marketing. Even his old blue cybernetic eye is placed at the bedside table like how he would keep it at Atlas. Next to it is the Revive machine, which pulls him back to reality.  
_Where the hell am I._  
A spike of pain shoots through his upper torso when he tries to move his right arm. It doesn't budge. He holds his breath as he attempts to access his Echo Eye. The display shutters bright blue and the sparks dangerously. He stops immediately. _Shit_.  
He wants to cry from the press of a decent mattress on his naked back as he sits up, even if it highlights many of the pains and aches he's accumulated in these days. A violent shiver catches his body and he pulls a yellow blanket up to his neck from the bottom of the bed where he must have pushed it off.  
_Where's Jack?_

A movement at the other side of the room makes his jump.  
“Oh!”  
A Loader Bot creaks morosely and turns to face him. He'd heard that defective Hyperion Bots were usually abandoned on Pandora. This one looks to be in fair condition, even if it only has one leg.  
“Hey! Loader?” He scoots forward, still shivering.  
It shifts as if to indicate that it's listening.  
“Where am I?”  
It turns away.  
“Don't. Look. At. Me.”  
“Why?”  
“I'm. Ugly.”  
“Oh, um, but where am I?”  
“Why. Do. You. Hate. Me.”  
It's one of those low self esteem bots that had developed too much sentience, so the manufacturers abandoned them on Pandora. In hindsight, it probably wasn't the best move for the Bot’s already extreme depressive episodes.  
“I, uh, really enjoy your company.”  
It swivels back around.  
“You. Are. In. A. Hyperion. Bunker. In. The. Mad. Valley. Territory.”  
His heart sinks. The Mad Valleys are deep within roaming psycho territory and at least 100 miles from Atlas. It explains why he hasn't received any messages from Athena; his Echo has only so much range before it glitches out and messages don’t go through. Well. Before all of his wiring got trashed. Now it's just a piece of junk attached to his left eye until he can find a mechanic, which--who even knows if those exist in the Mad Valleys?  
“Where's Handsome Jack?”  
“Am. I. In. Trouble.”  
“Yeah, if you don't tell me where Jack is.”  
“Sorry. Sorry. I'm. The. Worst. Handsome. Jack. Has. Left. One. Voicemail.”  
“Play it.”  
The Loader hits a button in the center of its chest.  
“Hey, hey cupcake! Feeling better? It's cool, you don't have to answer if you've died.”  
Rhys rolls his eyes.  
“De nada, by the way, for the comfy bed. Yeah, I had a bunch of secret bunkers placed on Pandora back when I lorded over Hyperion. Just in case. It has a Loader Bot and everything!”  
The Loader makes a low, sad sound of acknowledgement.  
“I'll be back, so don't get your panties in a twist, but I figured your little baby brain could probably use an explanation. So here goes: that there little circular device is called Revive. You looking at it? Good.”  
He glances to the bedside table.  
“Don't let it out of your sight. I commissioned it a while back. Basically, it's a resurrection device that doesn't require a DNA sample. The point is to recreate an existing identity just off of a digital blueprint. Neat, huh?”  
Impossible.  
“Yeah, too bad the monkeys at Hyperion couldn't piece it together. No one from Dahl or Maliwan could either, to be fair. The project got dropped, people got airlocked, yada yada. Now, I don't know how Bigballsky got schematics for that thing or how it got developed, but it’s definitely what brought me back into living breathing color, and it’s definitely what's keeping me alive. So lose it and I’ll tear your face from your body. Got it? Amazing.”  
The audio clicks out. Rhys lies down.  
“Thanks, Loader,” he says half-heartedly.  
“I'm. Not. Fun. To. Be. Around.” The Loader faces the wall.

Head spinning, Rhys leans against the headrest and waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're enjoying my Handkfns Jason/Reeks imaginings.  
> Did I mention this isn't beta'd?


End file.
